


there's someone for each of us (they say)

by Boardingschooled



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (almost entirely off-screen though), M/M, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Self-Indulgent, based on a country song because that's who I have become, one SUPER brief mention of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boardingschooled/pseuds/Boardingschooled
Summary: Some girls don't like boys like Billy. Some boys do.(Or: Billy disappoints a girl, takes Steve out to the quarry, and has a better Saturday night than he's had in a long goddamn time.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 19
Kudos: 191





	there's someone for each of us (they say)

**Author's Note:**

> If you got all excited to read the next installment of _stand_ or _the good life_ , I am terribly sorry to have disappointed you. I can only offer you this incredibly brief song-fic based on a Sawyer Brown song called _Some Girls Do_. (incidentally, also where the title of this fic comes from.) 
> 
> My southern ass was driving home having a great time listening to old country and I was suddenly struck with the first spark of inspiration to write in...months. Please go [watch the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncLZD4KFUD4) and gain a deeper understanding of my sappy Southern ass. (Also, this song fucking SLAPS. I am not taking notes on my music taste at the current moment; I am fully aware it's garbage lmao.)
> 
> Eventually, theoretically, I _will_ be writing more of both _stand_ and another installment or two of _good life_. Thanks for being chill, everybody. You guys are the real MVPs.
> 
> ALSO, there is one use of the q-slur and a whole bunch of references to Neil, fair warning.

So it turns out small-town Indiana isn’t that different from small-town Louisiana where he grew up, isn’t _really_ that different from any of the small towns he and his ma had moved to, following Neil from base to base until he’d gotten the dishonorable discharge in ‘82 and they’d decided on California. A small town is a small town is a small town, at the end of the day.

The cops are lazy and slow, all up in everybody’s business but willing to overlook the little shit. The tiny little town squares and main streets are always full of mom-and-pop shops who remember your face, and there’s a liquor store somewhere on the edge of city limits that’ll sell to whoever, as long as they pass along a nice enough tip. 

The girls are the same, too, all old-fashioned about sex and dating and shit; they expect a jacket to drape over their shoulders and barely-restrained makeouts at the drive-in or wherever else everybody goes to party, maybe something more if you’re _serious_ about each other. They don’t expect much more from boys like Billy, though, too concerned about the rumors that might spread from an ex-boyfriend or a two-faced friend, which makes pretending to be straight a hell of a lot easier. Even the rebellious ones, the ones who you could be fooled into thinking might be cool, are too prissy to smoke weed often or drink anything harder than a Coors Banquet. 

They’ve only been in Indiana a couple weeks when Billy lands a date with some faux-rebel, some senior girl who’s trying to convince herself that she’s gonna go away to college in New York or Chicago or somewhere and have some grand revelation about herself instead of going to IU and marrying some nice boy who’s a member of her dad’s frat or something. Sophie accidentally-on-purpose bumps into him while he’s deciding between whole and two-percent milk at the grocery store, talks at him with a few, almost-practiced pauses for him to flirt back. 

“You wanna go out to the quarry this weekend?” she asks, loud enough that the girl stocking cereal on the endcap can hear; Billy’s pretty sure he recognizes her from his math class. She raises an eyebrow at him like _really?_ , goes back to breaking down boxes like she doesn’t give a shit because she probably doesn’t. 

“Yeah, okay,” Billy nods, leans in close enough to feel the warmth of her skin while he grabs a gallon of milk from the cooler behind her. “Pick you up at six-thirty?”

She giggles at him like she’s flustered, but he can see the smirk at the corners of her mouth, all self-satisfied and sharp, as she explains where her house is. He winks at her in agreement, spins away from her before he chokes on the cloud of Love’s Baby Soft surrounding her. 

Neil’s all pissed that he brings home skim instead of whole milk, but he’s excited enough when Billy “accidentally” lets it slip that he’s got a date on Saturday evening that he doesn’t lose his shit or start throwing punches, so it’s all mostly fine.

* * *

When he shows up at Sophie’s house, this giant, blandly designed _mansion_ that’s all ugly beige stucco and dirty cream trim, he’s kind of expecting the twitching curtains in the front window as her mom looks out to assess his car for cleanliness and safety. They aren’t far enough south for her dad to be out on the front porch, polishing a gun, but he wouldn’t be particularly surprised by that, either. 

He is surprised, though, that her mom throws a whole fucking hissy fit about his _deathtrap of a car_ , won’t let her leave the house. Sophie keeps looking at him like he’s supposed to pull some _Footloose_ bullshit, defy her parents and make some grand argument while he whisks her away all romantic. He’s not stupid enough to do that, though, no matter how nice it’d be to start off his rumors of loving and leaving now, _before_ Neil starts getting antsy about Billy looking like a queer. 

“Well--well--fine then,” Sophie huffs when he makes it clear he’s not gonna fight her dad just for a shot at a lackluster makeout session. She turns her pretty little nose up at him, stomps away from his car, slams the front door all dramatic. He barely hears the hushed laughter from the shadows of the house next door over the sound of his driver’s-side door squeaking open. (He _really_ needs to find where Neil put the WD40.)

When he squints over at the porch through his open window, he sees Steve fucking Harrington, former Keg King of Hawkins High, all bright laughing eyes and dent in his lower lip like he’s been biting it, trying to keep quiet. He’s laid out on the porch swing, one foot down to push him back and forth all lazy. 

“She was sure impressed with you,” Steve calls out, breaks into a wide smile that Billy wants to make happen _forever_. 

“You wanna _ride?_ ” Billy yells over, leer dropping automatically into his voice. The silence stretches out long enough that he lets out a nervous breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and puts his hand on the key where it’s stuck in the ignition.

“Sure,” Steve says finally, sounding almost-- _surprised?_ with himself. “Hold on, lemme put on shoes.” There’s some rustling, a light flicking on and off from just inside the front door that haloes his shadow while he pulls on a pair of well-worn sneakers. His house is massive too, the kind of place you buy when you’re too rich to live in the small town you’re in but not rich enough to live the good life in whatever city’s close by. Billy turns the engine over, smirks when he sees Steve jump at the roar of the ignition. 

“You’re that new kid, right? Bill or whatever?” Steve asks when he throws himself into the passenger seat of the Camero. He’s so _casual_ , like he doesn’t know just how _pretty_ he is with his stupid-long eyelashes and those moles dotting his skin, like he really _doesn’t_ know anything about Billy. 

“Billy,” he corrects automatically, puts his arm behind Steve’s headrest as he turns to back out of Sophie’s driveway. He gets distracted by how _close_ Steve is, though, and balls his tire on the curb, feels the _ka-thunk_ just as hard as he hears it. 

Steve laughs up at him again, the fucking _brat_ , and Billy tries to shake off the nerves crowding his belly. 

“So where are we going?” Steve asks, and Billy hasn’t thought that far ahead, so he pulls out his best James Dean, all cool and collected. 

“I know one thing,” he quotes, “I ain’t _ever_ going back in that zoo.” He jerks a thumb back towards Sophie’s house, getting smaller in the rearview window as they drive away.

“Was that supposed to be the _Rebel Without A Cause_ guy?” Steve asks, and, like, Billy _really_ shouldn’t be charmed that Steve doesn’t know _James Dean_ by name. Embarrassingly, though, he is. 

“Jesus,” Billy scoffs, teasing, “You need some _culture_ in your life, baby.” The _baby_ slips out accidentally, and he’s bracing for impact when Steve rolls his eyes.

“What, and _you’re_ gonna be the cultured one of the two of us?” Steve asks, twirling the pink fur dice Max had tied to the rear-view mirror a week ago that he hasn’t gotten around to cutting down. He raises his eyebrows, wrinkles his nose, and Billy reaches up to swat Steve’s hand away, fights back a shiver at the warmth of Steve’s skin. “You know where the quarry is? I feel like you were at that back-to-school rager out there last week.”

“You’re talking to the reigning Keg King here, Steve,” Billy brags, and Steve looks at him doubtfully, raises his eyebrows at Billy as if to say _really?_ You’re _the new king?_

“Ah, you keep the title,” Steve sighs, this magnanimous tone in his voice like he’s doing Billy a favor or something. “I fuckin’ _hate_ keg stands.”

Loch Nora isn’t that far from the quarry, and they’re crunching to a stop in the gravel underneath one of the trees on the edge of the road before the silence can get awkward. 

“Want a cigarette?” Billy asks, mostly because he wants something to do with his hands before he does something monumentally fucking _stupid_ like try to pull Steve in for a kiss or something. 

“Sure,” Steve agrees, unfolds himself out of the passenger seat and out into the half-darkness of the night settling in. He perches on the hood of the Camaro, takes up space like he owns the whole town. Hell, maybe he _does_. Billy flicks his Zippo on and leans in to light Steve’s cigarette, just a little closer than the social codes around here dictate. He hears the quiet, involuntary breath Steve takes before he draws on the cigarette, catalogues the response to obsess over later, when he’s back in his bed, thinking about the way things could be. 

“‘M surprised Sophie even said yes to a date with you,” Steve says, conversational, as he exhales a stream of smoke. “She’s kind of a frigid bitch with, well, _everybody,_ really.” 

“ _She_ asked _me_ ,’ Billy corrects absently, taking a drag, and Steve scoffs to show his amazement. 

“I wouldn’t’ve thought she had that much backbone,” Steve says half under his breath, and then, louder, “But, like, I wouldn’t think girls like _her_ would go for a guy like you.” Billy doesn’t really know what the fuck to _say_ to that, and Steve realizes what he’s said all at once, winces in apology. 

“Not like _that_ , I mean,” Steve fumbles, and then, miracle of miracles: “She’d be _lucky_ to, uh, y’know what I mean?” It’s sweet, the way Steve wants to, like, _reassure_ him, and Billy decides to press his luck a little, steps in close again. He knows he’s not everybody’s type, knows that even the girls around here who _are_ interested are a little scared, too, of just what some big city boy might do when it’s just the two of them alone. 

He knows that he’s white trash, or something close to it; Susan isn’t, really, and she’s dragged Neil, and therefore Billy by extension, a little bit farther up the social ladder. Billy drives a fast, loud car, smokes cheap cigarettes and plays his music too loud for most of the people in town, so it really wouldn't be much of a stretch to call him white trash. There are people, though, for whom the draw of _different_ is enough. Maybe, he thinks, this little kernel of hope flickering to life in his belly, just _maybe_ Steve’s the kind of person who isn’t afraid of a little hell-raising.

“Some girls don’t like boys like me, but some girls do,” he murmurs, watches Steve lean in to hear him over the noise of the water from below. He lets himself make eye contact with Steve for one searing second, flicks his eyes deliberately down to Steve’s mouth, lips plush and a little chapped in this very cute, very _real_ way. He hears Steve’s breath hitch again, and it’s enough encouragement for Billy to push it, just a _little_ farther, just to see if he _can_. 

“Some boys, too,” he whispers, and then, before he can pull away or make a joke or do _something_ to get himself out of Steve’s orbit, Steve’s hand is hot on the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss that tastes like menthols and whatever tomato sauce thing Steve must’ve had for dinner. It’s a good kiss, basil notwithstanding, searing and confident, and, like--Billy should _know_ better than this, should push Steve away and push these feelings back down and go back to being the straight guy Neil expects him to be, at least until he’s eighteen and not living under Neil’s roof. 

He lets his own hands wander, instead, roaming over the bumps of Steve’s spine and the sharp jut of his hips and up into Steve’s hair, surprisingly soft given how much product it must take to get Steve’s hair looking as good as it does. 

Steve lets out a pleased little noise from deep in his throat; Billy crowds him in, pushes him up against the side of the Camaro, gently and then a little harder when Steve melts against him. The fire stoked in his own belly rises, and he makes a stupid, needly little sound of his own. 

“ _Jesus_ , it should be _illegal_ for you to be so good at this when you look like _that_ ,” Steve sighs when he pulls away to catch his breath. “Like, save something for everybody _else_ , you know?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Billy asks, innocent, and leans back in. He doesn’t really give a shit how many girls like him, not if Steve’s looking at him like that, like he wants to eat Billy whole. 

“How big’s your backseat?” Steve murmurs against Billy’s mouth, and _really_ the backseat’s kinda cramped for two, but Billy’s confident they can figure _something_ out. He opens the door, ushers Steve inside, and follows him in, slams the door behind him and thanks whatever gods are listening that the Cammy came with tinted windows. 

(When the Chief of Police taps on their window with his flashlight, some indeterminate amount of time later, his moustache bristling with annoyance, Steve rolls down the closest window, blushes bright red when he sees who’s on the other side. 

“Sorry, Hop,” he sighs, grimacing.

“Are you _for real_ , kid?” the chief asks, sounds mostly just exasperated. “I _know_ your parents are outta town again, why not go to your nice, empty _house_ to do this, where I don’t have to find out answers to questions I don’t wanna have.” He rubs the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, sighs all heavy and dramatic while Steve sputters, trying to find something to say. “Pack it up now, shitheads, go back to Loch Nora.” 

“Thanks, Hop!” Steve calls, awkward, at Hopper’s back. “‘Preciate your help, as always.”

“Get outta here before I slap the two of you with an indecency charge,” Hopper yells back, sounding fond. “And don’t let me catch you giving any more of your shitty ditch weed to the kids or I’ll have to kick your ass.”

“Listen, if Mike _steals_ my stash that isn’t, like, _my_ fault,” Steve whines back, and Billy leans across him to roll up the window before the Chief changes his mind about letting them go without any fuss. Hopper just waves him off like _yeah, yeah_ , heaves himself back into his truck and drives off. Steve looks over at Billy, bursts into hysterical giggles that are weirdly contagious. The tension drains from the car, and when Steve finally catches his breath, he explains. 

“I caught him and Joyce Byers making out in his patrol truck last week,” Steve starts, sets off another round of laughter. “And he said he, and I quote, ‘owed me one.’”

“Guess we better get you home before he comes back and doesn’t owe you one anymore,” Billy suggests. 

“You, uh, you wanna come in, watch a movie or somethin’?” Steve asks, looking away like he’s afraid to know the answer. “I’ve got _Gremlins_ , and _The Breakfast Club,_ and the stupid kids made me get _The Goonies_.” He sounds fond, about the kids, and Billy knows how that feels, that stubborn, fierce love for Max that threatens to overwhelm him when he isn’t fully prepared for it to rush to the surface. 

“I could watch a movie,” Billy agrees, tries to be casual. Steve’s hand lands on top of his on the gearshift, and Billy feels something warm spread through him, something _happy_. 

  
It’s the best Saturday night he’s had in _years_ , like, maybe _ever--_ at least, it is until the next Saturday night, when he and Steve get cozy in the backseat of Steve’s Beemer at the drive-in one town over.


End file.
